


Just as Deadly

by Livia_LeRynn



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Body Image, Established Relationship, F/M, Fingering, Furiosa POV, Mentions of past self-harm, Mutual Masturbation, Post-Canon, Public Nudity, Scars, Stream of Consciousness, Stump stimulation, Vaginal Fingering, character study disguised as smut, exercise, handjobs, intentional tense changes, outdoor sexy times, vague mentions of past sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 09:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11986749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Livia_LeRynn/pseuds/Livia_LeRynn
Summary: On one of the hottest days of summer, Furiosa finds that she is finally starting to feel comfortable in her own skin.A really, really late entry to#SmuttyArtsPrompt.  I've written explicit before, but this may be my First Smut Ever.





	Just as Deadly

Furiosa still isn’t used to the way Max looks at her. 400 days have passed since she met him, 220 since they became intimate, and a hundred days since they admitted that they want to stay that way. Today might as well be the first day.

The heat of the summer licks away her sweat as she holds herself in a plank position. She’s stripped down to her chest wrappings in the centre of her room, and he’s watching. His eyes stick on her back like the glaze of salt the heat has left behind. The way he stares at the lines of her muscles where her bare skin meets worn cloth… her heart pounds with something other than effort. She sweats from something other than the summer heat.

His stares are nothing like the ones she worked for thousands of days to prevent. No, his gaze is soft, not gawking or possessive or even protective. He simply watches, entranced almost. His eyes follow the light along the lifts and dips of her muscles and the curves of her fuel reserves. Now that she's noticed his attention, she can't block out the feeling of exposure, but on this particular occasion, she realises that she doesn't mind. If she’s to be exposed to anyone… She forces her shoulder blades flat against her back and her spine into better alignment. 

There was a time when she would tolerate no one at her back. She would survey every room she entered to find a position for herself where she could most subtly guard her blind spots. She trained herself to sleep with her back pressed against the wall even on the coldest night when she lived in the barracks. She carried that habit with her as she rose to the ranks and gave it new uses as she developed new things to hide. She only began to abandon it when Max wedged himself into the slight space between her skin and the stone of her bedroom wall. He stretched that space to accommodate his breadth as he curled himself around her like the shell on the back of a tortoise.

Furiosa raises her head to meet his eyes. “What?” Her voice is equal measures of exasperation and affection. Then she turns away and hears Max’s clothing shuffle as he shrugs and momentarily returns his attention the gun he's supposed to be cleaning.

Furiosa smirks and returns to planking. She rides over the bumps of restlessness and fatigue until she looses track of time, and then she keeps moving. She shifts to distribute her weight more comfortably between her long and her short arms. The muscles of her upper abdomen quiver with effort. She breathes, her ribs slowly expanding to stretch her chest wrappings, her breasts pressing against the fabric to form the kind of feminine roundness she's only just now learning to appreciate. Max’s eyes are on her again; she feels them like a warm light. She drops her belly to the floor and arcs her back so she can meet his gaze and sighs as she stretches. 

When she first returned to her bed after the Road War and the loss of her waist cincher to her own bone-handled knife, she had to relearn the feelings of air against her bare skin and of a roomful of eyes on her belly flesh. How many times did she reopen her wounds because she refused to lie flat on her back all vulnerable? Then her muscles softened from days of disuse and illness. She was too weak to even curl herself, too tired, too broken to make any use of her own defences.

Max saw her in all those states, and his gaze never changed; he's always looked at her as though she were strong even when she knew that wasn’t the case. Sure, he shifted it as soon as he knew she’d noticed, but his responses were just the slightest bit too slow. His gaze was the same when he first came back, and her every cough was shearing. He stood behind her _just in case_ when she first attempted stairs, and when she turned towards him, intent on snapping in frustration, his gaze was still the same. Sometimes it was open and others thinly veiled, but it was always there. With studious awe he marvelled at her as if she were strong when she clearly wasn't. 

So she decided to make herself worthy of it. As he came and went like passing clouds, she took every opportunity to rebuild the steel in her body, promising herself that the next time he returned she would be better. After a full 180 days, her strength was back, but she still didn't feel worthy of his admiration. Other injuries came and went, and some of her old ones complained in the cold or the quiet just before a storm, and time passed as it always had.

She rolls to her back and lifts her straightened legs. She lowers them to her side, slightly twisting her body to target her right oblique. Her scar there is still pink. It stretches into a thin line like a nervous mouth and then purses as she lifts her legs again. Sometimes she finds a hollow ache in that spot, as if she still has an empty space there. Sometimes a sharp stitch in her side steals her breath. Today, however, the movement is smooth, and her scar is the only evidence that it was ever any other way. She repeats the motion until fatigue sets in, and then she switches to the other side. 

“Care to join me?” she pants at Max. “We can maybe find a spot downstairs.”

Max doesn't appreciate a good workout quite the way she does. He saw them as a waste of calories when there were no resources to be gained. That was until an injury sucked the strength from his muscles and kept him at the Citadel long enough to lower his stamina. After he had healed, but a quick tussle left him panting like a half-life, he begrudgingly showed up to War Boy conditioning. Now when he's here for more than a couple of days, he makes a point of at least cranking out a few push-ups or pull-ups during breaks from work on his car.

“Hot,” he whines.

“Not getting any cooler, best get used to it,” she taunts at the man who wears a black, leather jacket in the desert mid-day sun. 

That jacket is strewn over her table. Max tends to do that when he sleeps. Furiosa wakes up early sometimes, or doesn’t sleep at all, the nights before he’s scheduled to head out. Then she buries her face in that leather so his scent overwhelms her with the musk and the smoke of the life he leads without her. She taught herself to orgasm to that smell, and then covered her face in her palm when her breathy gasps woke him. 

She’s breathless now from effort. She shoves herself up to sitting after burning out her energy. Heat radiates from her sternum as beads of sweat roll between her breasts. She slurps down water from her canteen and contemplates dowsing herself in it. She stands, and when he stands beside her she presses her body against his so her glaze of dried sweat mixes with his. The contact in the stifling heat is raw and primal. 

“I do have to go down anyway,” she says while scratching behind his ear.

He hums to himself a as he slips his had over her tan skin where her bicep and her deltoid meet. She stirs at the idea that Max should like her like this. Joe liked his women soft and fragile. When she was among them he liked to move his hand against the softest part of her belly, and she bit her tongue wanting to scream, “This is not yours!” 

But Max apprises her with reverence. And she sees him in the same light. For now she lets her hand loop around his rough, scarred palm and then leads him out of her room. They walk side by side, their hips brushing against each other. Her footsteps are a steady clip. The sound of Max’s brace scuffing against the stone floor fits rhythmically between the clacks of her heels. 

She’s still not used to the way the place between her legs twitches. She’ll make sure that is seen to later when her duties for the day are done. She knows he likes to watch her with the pull-up bar in the garage, how she takes it in her one hand and clenches her short arm around it. She knows he likes the way her sweat slips over the sharp curves of her muscles. She knows the way his breath catches in his throat when the light hits her just right. 

None of this is anywhere near the front of Furiosa’s mind as she walks along the primary driveway of Garage 1. Even though the temperature is lower here in the belly of the Citadel, it still feels like the inside of an oven. The air is still and thick with moisture and humanity. The room is buzzing with activity, Pups running hoses to the vehicles slated to go on the next trade run, Boys reverentially etching new designs into bonnets and doors, and Dag and Cheedo painting benevolent words above the garage door while they perch precariously on scaffolding. _May the Road Rise to_ … Dag is drawing an ‘M’ with long, sweeping strokes of white.

Cheedo’s “Eep,” is the only sound to indicate something is off when Dag’s elbow hits a bucket of grey water off the scaffolding edge.

Furiosa will later shake her head at herself because she should have noticed Cheedo’s chirp. She will chuckle to herself at how she should have seen the metal bucket begin to turn as it fell. On a different day, she might have been quick enough with her reflexes to get out of its way, but today, she doesn’t. It spins above her, emptying itself so she is completely and utterly drenched.

Furiosa feels the weight of everyone’s eyes. Max snickers as water drips from Furiosa’s cropped hair and rolls down her face. She grits her teeth against the initial shock of coolness against her skin. Tense silence has replaced the weight of the summer heat. 

“Sorry,” Cheedo shouts from above.

Furiosa smiles slowly; she feels good. “Thank you!” She shouts up as she shakes her head and laughs.

She knows where a grouping of clotheslines is set up outside, the bottom one beneath Tower 3 she used when she lived in the barracks and had to keep her chest wrappings clean enough to pass for skin from a distance. She stills goes there sometimes, although her needs for seclusion are different now. If water and effort are going to be spent cleaning her clothes, the labor is at least going to be hers. The Sudzos know better than to bother her; she's only been washing with them for five thousand days. No one should be out there now anyway.

Someone opens the garage door, and Furiosa leads Max off the vehicle platform and down a rope ladder. A bridge to Tower 3 and another two ladders down lead them to the the rows of lengths of wifecloth flapping in the breeze. Some are still the bone white of old days, others dyed in careful patterns with ochre and umber. Beside them are pants of faded boycloth, now embellished with carefully embroidered flowers. She weaves a path among them as Max follows her trail of footprints and dripping water. She smiles as her fingers brush their worn edges of the garments around her. 

Furiosa finds a bucket of clothespins and an empty spot on the line then sets her attentions to working herself free of her chest wrappings. Finding the loose end proves more difficult than usual, but once she does, her chest wrappings seem to fall in slowing motion, heavy with water and clinging to her skin as they drip. Trails of water run between her breasts, over the dip beneath her sternum, and down the ripples of her muscles. It runs down her back and pools slightly at the top of her bum before soaking into the leather of her pants. Her nipples perk at the sensation of air. She peeks at Max from behind a length of wifecloth dyed muddy green and makes sure he sees her chest wrappings finally surrender to gravity.

Her mothers used to pay no mind to exposed breasts. They greeted company with the fullness of their bodies freely exposed. They would wrap their breasts for comfort during riding, but being just a child with a flat chest and firm flesh, Furiosa never quite understood the erotic appeal when K.T. let the men brush against her dark body. Then K.T. would break their wares beneath her teeth and declare their mediocrity. Mary Jabassa would beam, her arms crossed against her own less ample chest. Bound breasts meant business, and free breasts meant comfort and ease. Messages were sometimes mixed and marks manipulated, but the act of unbinding belonged to bonded partners alone.

After Furiosa was taken, her breasts found themselves wrapped in pale wifecloth so they appeared swollen and soft. Joe fed her until that appearance was truth, but they only swelled with fat, never milk. When she finally escaped they bounced enough to hurt her chest, but she kept running. She only stopped to tie them tightly against her ribs after she vomited in the dust from exertion Then she kept moving. And when she returned far thinner and meaner, she wore the same wifecloth bound smooth and taunt around her chest and powdered with talc. 

Furiosa steps away as she remembers the first time she let Max see her without her wrappings. She'd been ridiculously nervous for no discernible reason. She plucked the loose end from where it had been tucked and unwound herself one full rotation before pressing the cloth into his palm. She'd never wanted something so much and yet been so terrified. She half wanted to tear the fabric away like a scab from not-yet healed skin, but Max went slowly as if he knew her people’s rituals and the weight this moment held. 

He learned the ways of her breasts as he did most things, with his hands. He pressed them up and against her as he kissed her hard on the mouth. Furiosa’s heart pounded, and her insides ached with a ferocious hollowness. She almost came right there; here was a thing that she wanted, something that she had chosen for herself, and it was actually happening.

Furiosa is deep in memory when she sits on the red ground to hastily unfasten her boots. She ends up kicking them the rest of the way off before Max bends to far in a misguided attempt to help her. She shoves her pants down without paying much attention to their fastenings, but they are too wet to slide off with ease. They cling first to her thighs and then her calves. She wedges her stump between the leather and her own skin and shoves the two layers apart while guiding with her hand. Max tugs from her ankles, and together they peel away her pants, the brown leather legs rolling themselves inside out like snake skin. 

Max runs his palm over Furiosa’s thigh once her legs are freed. He doesn’t mention her web of scars, but he pauses over his favourite just below her bum and traces its raised form with the pad of his thumb. That one came from a War Boy knife what feels like a lifetime ago. She'd turned her back on her opponent, stupidly thinking the sparring match was over. His blade slipped through her pants, her skin, and the top few millimetres of her fat to show her otherwise.

She’s often wondered if Max can read her story in her collection; does he know which of her marks came from her own blade? He's never asked, but to her eyes the care taken in her tally is obvious. How else was she to measure the days? How else was she to measure the damage? She meant to make her last mark at 7000, and she waited a long time to make another, but she missed the grounding sting of a shallow cut. She still grows restless sometimes and powerless others. Sometimes Max’s gaze covers her skin like a shield. 

Furiosa stands and adds her undergarment to the pile of clothes without hesitation. She nonchalantly unsnaps the sides and pulls away the fabric. Max’s eyes are wide, and Furiosa smirks as she twists her dark curls between her fingertips. She guesses such immodesty is a bit out of character for her, but why should it be? She is just as deadly now as she's ever been. She is Furiosa of the Citadel. Why should she feel the need to hide herself? She can kill a man as easily naked as she can clothed. She would collect a few more scrapes and scratches in the process, but she would still walk away as tall and proud and fearless as ever.

“It's wet,” she explains, her voice taking on a husky character.

Max’s eyebrows raise, and then his lips thin and lift into a smirk. 

Furiosa bends to collect her clothing pile. “Any get on you?” He shrugs, eyes still fixed on her. 

He's always been well-built for a feral. Even at his wildest and hungriest, he's sturdy and bulky with the kind of musculature that comes from thousands of days of hauling his scavenged life from place to place. He's built for chucking a jug of water into the back seat and launching himself into the front. She can picture it perfectly, how he throws a sharp look over his shoulder before he fangs it for the horizon with his rubbish shotgun at the ready. Furiosa shakes her head as she laughs at the bloody unreliable thing. 

Now it's his turn to ask, “What?” and her turn to shrug in response. 

Her breasts brush against crumpled clothing in her arms. “Got anything to add to the pile?” she asks as she slips her short arm through the handle of the bucket of clothes pins. She turns so her bare bum is towards him and pale in the hot sun. 

He takes a clothespin from her bucket and clenches it between his teeth knowing full well the effort it will take her to snatch it from him. She swings her right arm like a whip, letting her wet clothing slap against his chest. Her leather pants hit first, making a satisfying smacking sound, and Max grunts his approval. She swings again, but this time he blocks her, and one of her pant leg wraps around his forearm. He tugs her towards him, jerking her off balance. The clothespin falls.

Their lips meet. Furiosa lets hers fold beneath his, and her knees go weak. She drops her clothing and bucket on the ground, giving no care to the red dust at her feet. She slips her finger under the ragged hem of Max’s shirt and strokes at the smooth, soft skin just above the top of his pants. Her short arm joins; she glides it over his belly. He smiles as he lifts his arms overhead, and together they pull away his shirt. 

Max grabs her hand between his thumb and his palm and twists it towards the sunset. Furiosa creaks as her wrist bends, and as she rolls out of the joint lock, he intercepts her path. Their mouths collide, lips, tongues, teeth. She tugs at a tuft of hair on the back of his head. She presses her damp self against him, grinding hard and wild like an animal as he leans against the red sandstone of the Citadel. 

He kisses her neck beneath her right ear while he opens the bricolaged repair job on his fly. Electric currents race beneath her skin. She squirms, gasping and writhing, snarling and nipping at his ear while she traces teasing touches along the top of his waistband. Then she dives beneath and runs her hand over his bum. She cups it greedily, digging her fingers into his flesh, and pulls his weight towards her centre of gravity. 

She smirks, wet with her own strength at how easily she moves him… and one-handed at that. When the road first took her left from her, she mourned what that hand would never do or touch, the socks she would never knit, the instruments she would never play… all things that were long lost anyway with the orchards of the Green Place. But suddenly all her losses were as real and permanent as the bloody mess where her left hand used to be. She was trapped, more than trapped, she was ruined. Her body had been the only thing she had then, and after how hard she'd fought to take it back from Joe, how she'd struggled to strengthen it so no one would ever take it from her again, she was losing it again, piece by piece in Joe’s service. 

Then when she was at her lowest, instead of kicking her out or relegating her to internal duties, Ace added a lower wrung to the pull-up bar. She remembers staring up at it and then down at her still healing scar where Organic had folded a length of her skin around the shorn bone and sanded bone. She bent her elbow then. Even though many days would pass before her chin would rise above that bar, she had shifted into the right gear for the journey. That moment onward, she found her hand’s lack a puzzle to be solved. This was the way things had to be. She never looked back.

That is until she took to exploring Max’s body. She couldn't help wondering if his skin might feel differently to a her left hand as opposed to her right, as if there might be some texture she’s missing, some experience of him she would never have. He does feel differently to her stump as opposed to her palm, she learned. Max can take her stump between his hands or between his legs and ignite it with the full fire of life. At first the intensity of that fire was painful, but over time and practice she came to find pleasure in it. She has come to regard the sensation as raw passion, as fire holding her instead of her hand holding it. 

Furiosa turns her attention to Max’s front and finds him hard and ready. She gives him a firm, direct pump in case he still isn't sure she means business. The cradles his head with her short arm as he arcs his back and slides down the sandstone, trading red dust for sweat as he goes. All the while she glides her hand up and down, tightening just enough at his top that his loose, velvety skin slips up and over his head. 

He hums, a low and primal rumble deep in his chest, then cups his palms over her deltoid. He presses the pads of his fingers into her flesh until she tenses. Then he strokes as he gently pushes her back.

“Don't stop - wanna look at you,” he explains when her concern registers in her face and her rhythms.

Furiosa has to chuckle at the absurdity of such a request, but she obliges. Performance, that's what he wants, her Imperator self wearing nothing but her mantle of authority and her glaze of bravado. She scoots herself backwards enough to creat space between them but keeps her hand firmly on his cock. She traces a particularly prominent vein with her thumb as the narrows her eyes. Then she drags her stump over his chest and belly, letting her skin pull just enough to feel alive. She hums smugly as she glides it past his cock and between his legs. 

“Hold still,” she commands in a husky whisper. 

Max grunts at her stump pressing his balls forward. 

“Don't breathe.” She points his leaking cock towards her chest. 

It's Max’s turn to smirk. He tugs his pants down to give Furiosa more room to manoeuvre then cups her cunt in his hand. “Too easy.” 

Furiosa moans when he plunges first one finger and then another deeply into her. He strokes her insides, making her mouth water and her belly contract as she curls forward, achingly hollow. She grinds against his hand and pumps his cock in rhythm. He synchronises his thrusts with that rhythm and adds extra flick and splays and strokes to make her squirm and moan.

She swallows the sounds at first. Even in the safety of their room she's never been particularly loud. Now the open space around them becomes particularly exposed. Furiosa decides the jumpy feeling in her chest is almost fun, and it reminds her of the times she and Valkyrie would shirk choices and sneak off to hide in the vineyards before they knew any danger worse than their mothers. 

Now her eyes dart from lengthening shadow to lengthening shadow. The Sudzos will be back for the laundry soon. She and Max are a few metres off from the clotheslines, but definitely still within hearing. So what if they are heard? Of all the shameful things she has done, this is the least. Of all the times her body and mind have failed her in embarrassing betrayals of her position, this is something different entirely. She has not lost control; she's relinquished it. She's chosen the air at her back, the stones at her front and the hand at her cunt. She gasps then moans, imagining her voice louder than it is.

Max covers his face with his free hand when Furiosa summons a grunt out of him by circling her thumb. He's not as comfortable as she is, even though she's the one upright with her tits and her bare ass to the winds. Even in her room he jumps at the sounds of carts barreling down the hall. Come to think of it, the only place she's truly seen him comfortable is the open Wasteland, so far from any other life form that the sun is the only remaining threat. 

“I said, _Don't breathe._ ”. She gives him a sharper pump for emphasis and spreads his leaking fluids with her thumb. 

He pinches his mouth shut and gives her inner ridges a retaliatory flick. His eyes are narrowed and turned up at the edges. Furiosa snarls back and coaxes his balls up against the base of his shaft. He thrusts his hips forward so Furiosa’s stump slides between his thighs and clenches them around her just the way she likes. Furiosa tips her head back and lets Max’s body heat engulf her. 

He slides his fingers out of her cunt just far enough that they now curl around the tip of her clit. His fingertips linger, stirring groans from her lungs. He rubs her clit against his fingers and the soft, wet, flesh of her lips so she shudders and clenches. He body goes taunt from her belly to her toes.

She pumps him hard and fast, refusing to be distracted. She has a shot to make. She pumps and pulls as he strokes and rubs, their rhythms meeting and matching one another. Furiosa curls in toes in the dust and grits her teeth against the shudders taking over her body. They swell like undulating dunes.

Furiosa moans and bucks with feral abandon. This sends Max over the precipice as well. He grips the ground with his free hand, and then at the height of his orgasm, he braces his red palm against her abdomen. She holds him steady, aiming gleefully as he releases. His belly gleams wet and white.

Furiosa stands on wobbly legs, a languid half-smile of contentment on her face. Her clothes will need a real washing now; they've acquired a dusty, red patina... and so has she, she thinks as she reguards the stains on her shins and the handprint on her stomach. Fingerprints paint her ribs where they splay out from her sternum.

Max looks up at her, mirroring her ease, and it suits him. He doesn't even seem guarded now as he pulls his pants back over his hips with simple, perfunctory movements. She's wondered if all his fears and anxieties he tries to hide as restlessness are just the price of his immense goodness. Or maybe his fears are no greater than hers; he's just had the luxury of never needing to keep them hidden. 

"I'll just say I tripped," she says as she gathers her things. She'll have to dress herself quickly before the Sudzos arrive to claim the laundry from the clotheslines, but the possibility of their eyes doesn't feel so pressing. 

"You tripped?" Max asks as he stands and then looks himself over. His bum and back are just as dusty red as her shins and stomach.

They could make for the Mouth and wait for the Watering, get their clothes and their bodies pounded clean from the rushing water. Or they could parade themselves through the Citadel, naked and shameless. She doesn't think they have the fortitude between them for either exhibition; they've come far enough this afternoon. 

Furiosa shrugs and strolls to the clotheslines. She claims two lengths of cloth, one to tie around her hips and one for her breasts. _The people can think what they want,_ she decides as she straightens herself.

"We tripped," she corrects herself and then arranges her top cloth to proudly display Max's handprint on her skin.

**Author's Note:**

> So this format is a little experimental with all the tense changes and what-not. I'd love to hear what you think.


End file.
